Cheater
by mazarin
Summary: "John. Really. It was one time. He was nothing to me."


"So, where've you been?" John asks, as Sherlock turns to the door to hang his coat on the hook. He'd walked out yesterday morning without a word, and John hadn't even had a text from him until now.

"Bath. Case. Three bottles of missing 1922 Veuve Clicquot suddenly appearing in Mr. Glen Parson's private cellar without any indications of a break in seemed a bit strange, even to me. Thought I'd go have a look, as nothing better offered."

"Where'd they come from , then?" John's curiosity is piqued, and as cases go, this one sounds more on the interesting side, less on the "likely to get you killed" side.

"Hmm?" Sherlock was hunched over his laptop now, obviously losing interest in the case now that it was over. "Oh, it was fairly straightforward, despite the promising beginning. Parson's lover was taking them when they were invited to dinners at friend's houses. He'd sneak into their cellars after the pretence of ducking out to the loo or whatnot. Work of an evening to stake out the next cellar. So simple even Will figured it out. Caught him red handed. Child's play, even if he did go down fighting a bit."

John shakes off the curiosity that has him wondering just why Parson's lover would risk ruining his life for some champagne, and gets to the heart of it. "Why didn't you call me? I'd have come. Stakeout in a wine cellar sounds more interesting than _Top Gear_."

"You were occupied, knew you had a shift at the surgery today, and Will was right there, so it was much more convenient to have him-"

"Yeah, who the hell is Will?"

"DI Will Harper, Bath Constabulary. Good man, quite clever, which is a rarity I'm sure you appreciate. Very good in a stakeout. Quick on his feet."

"DI Will Harper. Of course he is." John's temper is starting to get the better of him, he can feel it. Ridiculous, really. He's not entitled to go on Sherlock's cases. He isn't. But he thought he'd earned it.

Sherlock looks at John carefully. "Problem?"

"No, not at all. Better here eating tinned beans and watching telly than Sally Lunn's and a couple of ales down at The Raven before a stakeout in a wine cellar! I mean, how could it _possibly_ compare?" John's voice has been climbing throughout, with Sherlock's eyes getting proportionally larger with each passing second. John realizes perhaps too late that he sounds like a carping housewife, so he snaps his mouth shut, drops into his chair, and opens the paper, blocking Sherlock's face from his view and ending further discussion. Hopefully.

It turns out about thirty seconds of Sherlock's piercing gaze at the side of his head is all he can stand. He drops the edge of the paper and looks over at Sherlock, whose bright eyes are staring at him with amusement. The standoff is broken when Sherlock's mobile chirps with an incoming text.

"It's from Lestrade. Murder in Kensington. Killed with a butter knife over luncheon. Something about foie gras, but Lestrade's spelling is atrocious, so it's hard to tell. Coming?"

John sits stoically and doesn't move, irritated. Nice to be so bloody _convenient._

Sherlock stands directly in front of his chair, poking John's shoe with the tip of one perfectly shined black boot. "I said, are you coming? Don't have all day, you know. I'd prefer some daylight, if at all possible, and we'd barely make it by dusk."

John ignores him, loudly, rattling the paper and burying his nose in it. He can see the toes of those shiny boots under the edge of the paper, and studiously ignores them. He'll go away if John just waits him out. The lure of the case is too strong to hold him.

"John," Sherlock purrs. John jumps a little, never having heard that particular tone of voice before. "Are you in a snit because I went to Bath without you?"

John says nothing. Very sarcastically.

"Joooohhhhn. Come to Kensington with me."

"No, don't think I will. Fire's nice tonight."

"I'll buy you that new camera you wanted. The one you wanted to take pictures for the blog."

"No, thanks. Giving up documenting your life. I suppose _DI Harper _can do it, if he wants."

Sherlock crosses his arms at this, staring down at the top of John's head. "Oh for God's sake, is this about Will?"

"Oh, Will, is it? Well, I suppose so."

"John. Really. It was _one time._ He was _nothing_ to me. He couldn't even hold a gun properly; it looked like it scared him to death."

He reaches out long fingers and neatly plucks the paper out of John's hand.

"Give that back, you git!" John launches forward for the paper, but Sherlock jumps back just out of his reach. "What's gotten into you? Stop being so damn juvenile."

"No. Not until you agree to come to Kensington with me, and get over this ridiculous fit of jealousy about DI Harper. " He steps right up to John, close enough that John has to tip his head back a little to see his face. "You're the only one I want with me at crime scenes. The only one I need. " He drops his voice, a seductive rumble, and launches the final missile in his arsenal. "I'll take you to dinner. At Crispins. Even dessert. I promise to pay."

John whimpers, the smooth, vanilla silk of Crispin's crème brulee warring with his absolutely justified snit of temper over Sherlock's unfeeling betrayal.

He whimpers, defeated.

"I'm getting a bottle of Bordeaux. A really dusty one."

Sherlock's lips quirk at the corner, a smug lift along one half of his mouth. "Of course you are. Nothing but the best for my blogger."


End file.
